Because Your Coat is Part of You
by camellialice
Summary: Five times John wore Sherlock's coat  and one time he didn't need to . Fluff, implied Sherlock/John.


Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme which requested "a fic of John wearing Sherlock's coat in a range of situations."

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><p><strong>1.<strong>

The coat is, in a word, grand. At this point it's more of an icon than a garment, a symbol of Sherlock's cleverness and eccentricities. John can't look at it without memories of dashing through streets after murderers like hounds after a fox, winter walks in the park (as well as the occasional snowball fight), and, most importantly, Sherlock. Sherlock twirling around 221B, Sherlock gesturing impatiently to the police, Sherlock bending over a victim at a crime scene. The coat is Sherlock's- no, the coat almost _is_Sherlock, and for anyone else to wear it would be a disturbance in the natural order of the world.

But Irene Adler wore it.

And Sherlock's not here.

And his coat is.

John ponders this for a moment. It doesn't seem fair that she should get to wear it and not him- he's had to put up with Sherlock for much longer, after all. But it also doesn't seem right to wear it, even if Sherlock's not here, and especially not without Sherlock's permission.

But... maybe... it wouldn't hurt just to try it on...

John surreptitiously gets up from the couch and slinks to where the coat has been haphazardly draped over a kitchen chair. He feels guilty, like a child stealing cookies, but curiosity burns inside of him and overcomes the guilt. John takes a deep breath and puts on the coat.

It's big, much too big, ridiculously big, in fact. The sleeves are longer than his arms and the hem nearly brushes the floor. He should have expected this, considering the height distance between Sherlock and him that John is painfully aware of. It's also much heavier than it looks. The inside lining is silky, in contrast to the rougher wool of the outside which he's used to. When John looks in the mirror, he doesn't look majestic or clever at all. To be entirely frank, he looks rather silly.

Dejected, John trudges back to the kitchen, taking off the coat, and the cold suddenly strikes him. He hadn't realized how warming the coat had been. But he's afraid to put it back on- Sherlock said he'd be home in half an hour, anyway- so John runs upstairs to get a jumper so that he may return to his reading comfortably.

He tells himself it was an absurd idea to begin with, but has to keep firmly reminding himself of this so that he won't be so disappointed about the result.

**2.**

It's cold.

It's, in fact, very cold.

But that doesn't matter because there's A Case, apparently, although not one which Sherlock had felt merited John's notice, and the detective had therefore disappeared from the flat an hour ago without warning. Now John is putting his phone in his jeans pocket after a lengthy conversation with Gregory Lestrade which could basically have been summed up as, "No, John, I have no idea where your mad flatmate is, he ran off a while ago, have you tried looking for him?"

John's grateful for the warmth of the cab because once he'd realized Sherlock was gone, he'd left the flat in such a rush that he'd forgotten his jacket. This had instantly proved to be a terrible mistake, as he'd astutely observed when a gust of London January wind hit him. But it was too late to go back, especially when Sherlock could literally be anywhere.

They drive down what feels like half the streets in London while John once again dials Sherlock's number frantically, and once again fails to get a response. Eventually the cab driver gets upset and John reluctantly pays him and climbs out, left to shiver on the sidewalk.

That's when the bloody bastard finally decides to call him.

"John?"

"Sherlock? Jesus, where are you? I've been looking everywhere-"

"I'm at the corner of Kemble and Drury. Come quickly, I need your help."

And then he hangs up.

John stifles his rage and hails another cab (oh god it's so warm how wonderful). When he finally reaches Sherlock's location, the detective is tapping his feet impatiently.

"There you are! We've got to be at Angelo's in half an hour precisely but we're taking the long route so I can look for- Why aren't you wearing your jacket?"

John grits his teeth and tries to look dignified while simultaneously huddling from the cold. "Guess."

Sherlock looks him up and down and wordlessly begins to undo the buttons on his own coat.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

He doesn't respond but continues till the last button and then removes the coat and hands it to John.

"I'm sorry."

John blinks at him, unsure of what to say. It's enough of a shock that Sherlock Holmes would ever remove his coat for someone else's sake (especially in weather like this), let alone _apologize_to John.

"Well?" Sherlock asks. "Put it on, we're going to be late."

John's thanks goes unheard as Sherlock starts down the street at a fast trot. He pulls on the coat quickly, taking a moment to relish the warmth it provides, and then follows dedicatedly. Sherlock is so focused on his case that he doesn't even seem the least bit affected by the cold.

The coat might look a bit ridiculous on him, but John's so grateful that he doesn't care.

He still hasn't forgiven Sherlock, though.

**3.**

They're out of milk. Again.

But Sherlock won't go get it because Sherlock's busy with some terribly important experiment and so John has to leave his (very comfortable, thank you very much) position on the couch where he'd been reading a fascinating book to go get milk. Because Sherlock is a lazy tosser.

It's still terribly cold outside so John goes to fetch his jacket from the hook and finds it missing. He checks upstairs in his room, he checks behind and around the couch, he even checks the stairwell.

"Sherlock? Have you seen my jacket?"

There's no response, of course, because Sherlock's absorbed with his experiment and John sighs. He marches into the kitchen to get his attention and stops suddenly in the doorway.

Several moments pass as John stares, mind boggled, at the kitchen table, and Sherlock utterly fails to notice his presence. Eventually John pulls himself together and says, as calmly as he can, "Sherlock? What exactly are you doing with my jacket?"

Sherlock's head snaps up instantly and his eyes flicker guiltily down to the jacket-well, in this state it's probably better not to refer to it as a jacket anymore-like a dog who's just been caught chewing on furniture.

"It's an experiment," he proposes meekly, and John glares at him.

"That's my jacket."

"I know, I was going to return it after-"

"That does not look returnable, Sherlock. You didn't even ask my permission?"

"Well, I was going to, but then you looked busy..."

"So you were happy to interrupt me to ask if I'd buy milk, but you be bothered couldn't ask, 'Hey, do you mind if I do unspeakable things to your only jacket-'"

"They're not unspeakable, John, I can explain everything."

"Yes, and I really don't want to know."

There's a tense silence for a minute as Sherlock stares at him and he tries to avoid eye contact, which is made slightly more difficult because he also has to avoid looking at what was once his jacket. Finally he gives up.

"How am I supposed to go buy milk if my jacket's in a puddle on the kitchen table?"

Judging by his expression, Sherlock has not considered this. He glances back down at his experiment. "It's not _all_in a puddle."

John glares.

Sherlock sighs.

"You can borrow mine."

John is momentarily thrown by the offer. "I... what?"

"Go on, take mine. It's the most practical solution. I'll get Mycroft to buy you a new jacket later."

John's tempted to thank Sherlock until he remembers his jacket (he was fond of that one, dammit) and instead nods awkwardly and goes to fetch Sherlock's coat. It's better than going out without anything to keep him warm, and besides, John's secretly become rather fond of the feeling of wearing it.

He steps out onto the street, feeling the cold air sting his cheek, and pops up the collar to protect himself from wind. He must look like a pretentious git, but it works.

On his way to Tesco's he texts Sherlock.

_No more experimenting on my things without asking first. -JW_

As John is paying the cashier for the milk (he gave up on the machines long ago), he finally receives a reply.

_It wasn't that good of a coat anyway. -SH_

**4.**

They stumble through the door, laughing like idiots.

"I can't believe you pointed a _water pistol_at him," John gasps, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

Sherlock shrugs. "It was the only weapon I could find. Besides, it was efficient."

As he glances over at John, a smile cracks across his face and he quickly disintegrates into laughter again.

The case had been a good one, quick and fairly easy but so much fun. Four seemingly unconnected break-ins across the city, with only one similarity: The perpetrator had ransacked the mantelpiece of each house, and the mantelpiece only. Sherlock, delighted to find an escape from his boredom, had been instantly intrigued and dragged John along to Scotland Yard, where in the course of a day had figured out the connection between the break-ins as well as the location of the fifth. The miscreant himself turned out to be disappointingly thick, and though he was quick enough to turn a gun on John the moment they cornered him, he had dropped it and surrendered once Sherlock revealed his own (unique) weapon.

The adrenaline that comes from chasing down a criminal and solving a case began to slowly evaporate, and John can feel his limbs become heavier as the tiredness seeps in.

"Do you remember our first case together," he asks Sherlock, "and chasing the cab through all of London?"

Often, when reminded of this, Sherlock curses himself for not realizing the cabbie was the murderer, but this time he merely smiles at John.

"Welcome to London," he whispers, and the two men break down into a fit of giggles at the memory.

Finally John's too sleepy to remain in the stairwell and Sherlock notices and pushes him up the stairs.

"Go to bed," he urges John, who shakes his head.

"Too tired," he mutters. "I'll crash on the couch tonight."

Sherlock looks concerned but doesn't question the decision (he rarely does, when it comes to John).

John hangs up his new jacket as he enters the flat. When Sherlock had first approached him with the package wrapped in brown paper he had been worried about what sort of new coat Sherlock might have bought for him, but to his relief it was exactly the type John would have chosen for himself. It's a good jacket, he has to admit to himself, even if he was fond of the old one.

He takes off his shoes and throws himself on the couch, too exhausted from the chase to do anything else before falling asleep. He sees Sherlock hovering in the kitchen and asks quietly, "D'you think this'll ever end?"

It's a very broad question but Sherlock understands John instantly. He seems alarmed at first, but his face softens.

"Of course not," he says, and John can feel himself drifting off to sleep.

At two in the morning John is awoken by the unfamiliarity of the couch and knows that he'll ache like hell in the morning. That's when he notices the coat, carefully placed over him and tucked in at the sides like a blanket. He stares at it for a few moments, trying to imagine Sherlock tucking him in, a mental image so strange that he quickly gives up. The coat is comfortable and warm, and John is tired, and thinking can wait until tomorrow.

He falls asleep gently, with one hand clutching the coat and a contented smile on his face.

**5.**

But it does end, and it ends tragically.

The story is publicized everywhere and soon too many people know the details: the call, the fall, the suicide of a fake genius.

But he wasn't fake, John wants to scream, he was real and he was human and he was one of the greatest men I ever knew. But John doesn't scream because he can't, because the words get lodged in his throat and he feels like he's choking on his own tears.

They visit the cemetery, just John and Mrs. Hudson, and she gives him time alone to talk to Sherlock's gravestone. It doesn't make him feel any better, but it does help somewhat to be able to say what's been weighing on his chest, what he never got to say before.

Afterwards they go home and she fusses over John, cleaning out the kitchen and preparing a plate of biscuits for them both and finally just sitting down in the chair across from him. John smiles and they chat idly, a display of small talk hiding the heartbreak that both share.

When Mrs. Hudson leaves, John is left staring into empty space, hoping it'll swallow him up and take him somewhere where Sherlock is still alive.

John finds himself staring a lot. He doesn't cry as much now, mostly he just stares, as if a part of him is dead. He feels dead, certainly. He feels empty. And what's he to do without Sherlock? He can't be his blogger if there's no detective. He can't be his heart if there's no head. John and Sherlock were tied together, a pair, a "couple" as Irene Adler (and the rest of the world) saw them, and with Sherlock gone John is left hanging.

It doesn't help that everywhere he turns there's something to remind him of Sherlock. His chair, his last experiment, his laptop, his coat...

His coat.

The great, grand, wonderful coat of Sherlock Holmes. The one he died in. John finds himself standing, involuntarily moving towards it. He picks it up and rubs the rough wool exterior with his palm. It's been cleaned of the bloodstains, but it still smells like Sherlock.

John drifts to the couch and slumps on it, still holding the coat. He wraps it around himself, remembering the first time he tried it on, how ridiculous he looked (how silly he must look now, too). But he also remembers all the times Sherlock lent it to him, how majestic Sherlock managed to look in it. A lump appears in his throat as if conjured by magic, and John's best attempts to swallow it down fail. He pulls the coat tighter around himself and lets his head fall down the side of the couch until it is resting on the end like a pillow (like the night he slept there, the night he thought it'd never end).

And then John Watson sobs, quietly at first until he breaks down the barriers he'd built in his head and releases all the emotion he'd been storing since the fall. He sobs and he thinks of the coat, of Sherlock, of all the cases they had and all the ones they'd never have.

Eventually the tears slow down and his breath calms somewhat, and he tells himself he's being silly. But he knows he isn't, he knows there's nothing silly about the situation at all. Yet it helps to comfort him as he gently slides into sleep, repeating the mantra over and over.

As he sleeps he buries himself into the couch under the thick, warm coat, and dreams of a quiet house in Sussex, and more adventures with Sherlock Holmes.

**+1**

Three years. Not that John is counting, or anything.

Because that would be stupidly sentimental, wouldn't it? Like wearing Sherlock's coat around like a shock blanket, or trying to solve mysteries for the sake of keeping Sherlock's memory alive.

No, John isn't like that, he reassures himself. He only wears the coat because it's warm, and helps with cases because someone ought to. And he's kept track of the time because... well, he doesn't have a good excuse for that one.

But he has other things to focus on, aside from the fact that three years, two week and four days ago his best friend killed himself. Like the case. Because the case is solid and the case is solvable, and Sherlock's death _isn't_and it's easier to distract himself than remember.

He leaves the library disappointed, unable to find any information at all regarding the strange symbols scratched into the bodies of the last two victims. This time of year the library and the steps surrounding it are buzzing with students from the nearby school, and John struggles to squeeze past them, unsuccessfully.

He thinks he's made it out of the crowd and right then he bumps into a lanky grad student, knocking the books the kid was carrying out of his arms. The student's friends laugh as the kid blushes crimson and kneels down to scoop them up.

"Here, let me help," John offers, and reaches down.

"It's okay, there aren't many," the student mumbles.

"Doing research then?" John asks, in a vain attempt at conversation. "On, er, 'British Birds'?"

"Among other things," the kid says, and John notices that one of the other titles is _The Holy War_, which surely has nothing to do with British Birds. If only he was as observant as Sherlock.

"Well, um, sorry about that," John says awkwardly.

"Nah, it's cool. Thanks for helping, mate."

The kid turns back to his friends and John sets off. It's a chilly day, even with Sherlock's coat to keep him warm, but John walks home anyway, enjoying the sensation of the brisk air in his lungs and thinking about birds and holy wars and strange symbols and how much he wished Sherlock was here, to solve the case and keep him from making an utter fool of himself in front of college students.

He's seven blocks from 221B when he realizes someone is following him. He's had suspicions for a while, but they're finally confirmed when he casually slows to a standstill and sees his stalker do the same out of the corner of his eye. He picks up the pace anxiously, and so does his shadow, and finally John decides to confront the situation, and ducks into an alleyway.

His follower arrives not long after, stepping cautiously into the dark alley as if expecting an ambush, which John provides obligingly. He has the man pinned to the wall before he realizes it's the college student who'd dropped his books, and lets go.

"Why are you following me?" he asks.

The student brushes himself off and straightens up, then straightens again, and suddenly seems much taller. His voice is even deeper than before, like a mix of a purr and a growl. "I'd like my coat back."

John takes a second to process this, and collapses.

He feels strong arms wrap around him and is blearily aware of them pulling him up and an urgent voice calling his name. He struggles back to consciousness and looks up and oh god, that really is Sherlock Holmes holding him up. He staggers back (which alarms Sherlock greatly and the detective moves forward to catch him again) and tries to retain his balance and sanity.

"It's really you."

"Yes, John, it's me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, it would have been dangerous and-"

"Shut up." Sherlock obliges.

They stare at each other for a moment, eagerly drinking in each other's presence as if they can hardly believe they're back together (which is quite true). Finally John cracks and starts laughing.

"I'm going to kill you," he says between giggles, and Sherlock's face breaks into a grin as well and they lean against the walls of the alley, laughing like idiots.

"I really do need my coat back," Sherlock says eventually.

"Yeah, sure..."

And suddenly, it's okay. The coat has been a comfort to him for the past three years, hell, he's even _slept_with it on, except now he no longer needs it. There is no sadness when he removes it, just a shiver and a shy grin at Sherlock, who quickly removes the coat he was wearing and wraps it around John. It fits much better than the other.

They walk down the street towards 221B, not quite hand in hand but close enough to be so, exchanging tales of the past three years and desperately clinging to each other's presence. John watches Sherlock's coat swish in the breeze, and though it's just a little thing, he can't help but think of how much he missed that swish.

The coat is beautiful and majestic (and swishy), and as coats go it's probably the greatest one John's ever seen. But now that he reflects back on it he realizes something important: No coat could ever compare to the company of Sherlock Holmes himself.

But hopefully, he won't have to worry about that again for decades.


End file.
